Obsession

CHAPTER 23

The meeting took place the following night. Nine p.m. my house; Petra showed up first, at ten to the hour, though she’d driven from San Diego. “Big-rig overturn near Irvine, psycho traffic all the way to Newport and my cell phone battery died. Thank God I left early and changed into car clothes.”

That meant a black cowl-necked top, charcoal velvet sweatpants, and white sneakers. After a bathroom break, she accepted the offer of a phone battery and coffee and began chatting with Robin. When I came back, they were talking handbags and Blanche was on Petra’s lap.

“This one,” she said, “is star material.”

Robin said, “I know ostrich leg sounds gory but I like it better than straight ostrich.”

Petra said, “Is that the one with a larger pattern instead of dots? A little like croc but softer around the edges?”

“Exactly.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s nice. Poor bird-but they say ostriches are mean, so if you want to rationalize, there’s an out.”

“Cows are nice,” said Robin, “but I’m not limiting myself to hemp.”

I left to pour my own cup.

Milo arrived with a corner of a pizza wedge in one hand and tomato sauce stains above his lip. The shoulders and back of his sport coat were coated with fine gray dust and random flecks of paper. His tweed slacks were seasons too heavy for the warm night.

Taking a half-gallon milk carton from the fridge, he ripped at the spout and guzzled.

Robin said, “Want a cookie?”

“Home-baked?”

“Mint Milanos.”

“Kind of you, kid, but my standards are high.”

Robin laughed and took Blanche to the bedroom.

Milo and Petra and I sat around the kitchen table.

She said, “So you found the bullets.”

Milo said, “After two days of digging around. Some genius in the evidence room wrote down a 5 instead of a 3 and then another genius modified that to an 8 and added the wrong year code. They also had it clear on the wrong side of the room, with boxes from ’sixty-two.”

“Maybe they were hoping you’d solve a few cold ones while you were there.” She leaned over and flicked dust from his jacket.

“I got Bob Deal in Ballistics to agree to run comparison tests tomorrow. Anything happen with the airlines?”

“If only,” she said. “Fisk’s name doesn’t show up on any outgoing flights since the day of Jordan’s murder and neither does Moses Grant’s. Plenty of prints in Fisk’s Mustang but so far the only ones that pull up an AFIS match are his. Stu got San Diego to agree to work it over, in the interests of time. They’ve gone over the interior and the trunk, haven’t found any body fluids. I’ve got a nice broad subpoena for all of Fisk’s phone records but I can’t find any evidence of a landline and if he uses a cell, it’s a rental.”

“Bad-guy habits,” said Milo. “Any papers in the car?”

“Old reg, some PowerBar wrappers. It’s neat but not freaky-clean, as if he did a recent wash. Back to our vic for a sec. Lester Jordan had only a landline, but it doesn’t look like he had much of a social life, maybe twenty calls a month. The only long-distances were to lona in Atherton and the last of those was seventy-four days ago.”

Milo said, “Close-knit family.”

“Regular Brady Bunch. The other numbers Jordan called were take-out restaurants and pay phones. The pay calls happened late at night, which fits with Jordan craving dope. Raul did a thorough recanvass of the building. Most of the tenants had no idea who Jordan was, it’s not a touchy-feely place where they greet each other in the hallways. And no one had heard Jordan was the manager, so if Iona’s palming him off as such for tax purposes, she’s scamming. But a few people said they’d noticed lowlifes going in and out of Jordan’s apartment in the wee hours. Still, the H left behind doesn’t indicate Jordan got dead because he was dealing. Or maybe Fisk really can’t stand drugs.”

Milo said, “Even so, there’d be a profit motive.”

“Maybe,” she said, “Fisk and whoever let him in got careless. They did leave the window open. In terms of Moses Grant, there’s absolutely no criminal record. Bassett Bowland saw Grant at Rattlesnake with Fisk and De Paine but he didn’t observe any conspiratorial behavior. Barring new information, I don’t think Grant merits much of my time.”

I said, “Here’s new information: A couple of weeks before she got sick, Patty Bigelow treated Grant at Cedars.”

“For what?”

“Low blood sugar. He’s diabetic.”

“He’s a sick guy, she’s a nurse, and Cedars is the main E.R. on the Westside. Thousands of people move through there, Alex.”

“Grant came in with friends.”

She pushed hair behind one ear, rubbed a temple with her thumb. “Another layer of complication. Okay, what else do we know about Grant?”

Milo said, “According to his landlord in Woodland Hills, he was a model tenant, no noise, no guests, even played his music with earphones. Then six months ago, he cut out on the rent with no notice. Landlord sued him in small claims and won, but she hasn’t collected because she can’t find him.”

I said, “Six months ago Robert Fisk skipped out on his rent.”

“The two of them moved in together?” she said. “Fine, I’ll keep Grant on the radar. Which so far has picked up nothing but noise.”

She pulled out a sheet of paper and slid it across the table. San Diego PD fax sheet, an enlargement of Grant’s driver’s license in the center. “Real big teddy bear.”

Milo peered at the photo. His neck muscles corded as he handed the paper to me.

Moses Grant had smiled for the DMV camera. Round dark face. Shaved head, barbered mustache, and goatee.

Six six, a wishful-thinking two fifty.

The giant who’d exited the Hummer at Mary Whitbread’s place.

Oh, here’s my son.

That’s her kid? I love this city.

Milo told Petra.

She said, “Grant’s mommy was Patty’s landlord? Everywhere this woman moves has some kind of hidden meaning?”

I said, “We assumed Grant was Mary Whitbread’s son because he was the only one who got out of the car. What if he was driving someone else who decided to stay out of sight? The Hummer’s windows were tinted black, no way to know who was riding.”

Milo said, “Lester Jordan was still alive then, but not for long. Mary Whitbread was the last person we spoke to about Patty. Soon after, Jordan’s dead.”

Petra took back the sheet. “Whitbread’s son is Robert Fisk? Grant hangs with Fisk, doing the club scene, drives for him. Fisk’s mommy tells him something about Patty that gets him worried so he takes care of business…meaning the second guy in the apartment could be Grant. Though why Jordan would let him in, I don’t know. Unless Grant really wasn’t a clean-living teddy bear.”

She laughed. “Know a judge who’d sign a warrant based on that? Not that I’ve got a place to search.”

I said, “There’s another candidate for Mary’s son. Blaise De Paine, the Music Sampler. Fisk and Grant were De Paine’s sidemen. I found pictures of him on the Web. He’s fair-haired like Whitbread. Dresses flamboyantly and parties with beautiful people, which makes him a good fit for flashy wheels.”

“Let’s have a look at this sweetheart,” said Petra.

We headed to my office. I downloaded the images.

Petra said, “Looks like a kid playing dress-up…kind of a retro Sergeant Pepper thing going. Not that I’m old enough to remember…Mary Whitbread, huh? ‘Pain’ is ‘bread’ in French.”

Silence.

Milo studied Blaise De Paine’s poses. “Guy doesn’t dress, he costumes…a poseur. Which is Gallic for ‘bullshit artist.’”

“Pretentious and a thief,” I said. “Wonder what else he’s hiding.”